


Cake For Breakfast (Not A Euphemism)

by LizzieHarker



Series: The Arrowsverse [32]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Arrowsverse, Christmas Fluff, Christmas morning tradition, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clintasha - Freeform, Natasha Romanov Feels, Other, POV Natasha Romanov, Platonic Romance, Platonic Soulmates, snuggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-24 21:46:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17108675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieHarker/pseuds/LizzieHarker
Summary: Natasha glanced at the VHS and wrinkled her brow. Clint must have been distracted by his baking. “Clint, you grabbed the wrong copy.”“I grabbed the only copy, Nat. It's a classic. Christmas morning tradition.”





	Cake For Breakfast (Not A Euphemism)

Liho stood from his perch on the window sill and stretched, tail twitching. Natasha had always been leery of pets; pets meant setting down roots, being responsible for feeding and caring for something alive. More alive than a succulent, anyway. It meant not being able to shed her skin at a moment’s notice. There was a time when Natasha Romanov would have hated that idea and done everything to prevent it. Being good at her job required sacrifice, and above all, the means to vanish from the grid when necessary.

That time had passed, thanks to the man currently walking through her front door wearing a purple unicorn onesie, the unicorn head perched proudly on top of his blond locks. He had a thermos and bag in one hand, and a VHS in the other. His dog followed, shaking snow off his coat. Liho hissed and darted out of range. Natasha smiled.

“Who’s ready for my infamous spiced lattes, freshly baked sharlotka, and the classic tale of a child outsmarting bad guys with booby traps?”

“Me,” Natasha answered merrily, flipping up the hood of her own onesie. Hers was a custom-made red and black unicorn because Clint insisted they match. The grin that spread across his face was worth it, and it didn’t hurt that the onesie felt comfortable and warm. She’d already constructed their tradition blanket nest on the couch with bonus blanket nest on the floor.

Clint set his things on the displaced coffee table and headed for the tiny kitchen while Lucky tried making friends with Liho. It wasn’t that Liho didn’t like Lucky, but the lab was currently snow damp and cold. He may have started as an outside cat, but Liho quickly embraced the luxury of a warm place to sleep and two solid meals a day which meant playing with a cold dog was a solid no. 

Spoiled.

Natasha glanced at the VHS and wrinkled her brow. Clint must have been distracted by his baking. “Clint, you grabbed the wrong copy.”

“I grabbed the only copy, Nat. It's a classic. Christmas morning tradition.” The clink of plates and cutlery drifted from the kitchen.

“I don’t have a VHS player,” she answered. “I don’t think anyone has a VHS player.”

Clint poked his head out of the doorway. “I know you have some cool spy gadget you can use to convert and play the tape.”

“I have Netflix.”

He shrugged, disappeared again, and returned with two mugs and a set of plates bearing generous slices of apple cake. “Good enough.”

“Where did you manage to get a VHS anyway,” Nat asked, unscrewing the top of the thermos. Clint refused to tell her what he put in his spiked lattes. There had to be Irish cream in it, but whatever his secret ingredients were, the end product tasted amazing.

Clint handed her a plate. “Internet?” He plopped himself across the couch.

Natasha rolled her eyes, warmth bubbling her in chest. Words failed to express her fondness for her archer, but she felt it as strongly now as she did after they’d first met. Cake in hand, she snuggled herself against Clint, letting him drape his arm around her. He plucked the television remote off the side table and switched over to play the movie. 

The sharlotka tasted excellent, light and fluffy with the most delicious apples baked into it, and Natasha found herself again grateful for all their little traditions. For how far they’d both come. For their little family. 

As the open credits started rolling, Natasha took a sip of her latte and let herself drift. They’d seen this film . . .at least once a year for the last decade. The first time had been shortly after Clint brought her in to S.H.I.E.L.D., while Natasha had still been in debriefing, enduring periodic psychological and physical evaluations while confined to the base. She’d been spitting mad, nearly snapping Clint’s head off when he’d appeared, a ragged movie in one hand and a bucket of popcorn in the other. His dopey grin and genuine enthusiasm had swayed her into sitting on the opposite side of the couch as he put on “one of the greatest, most under appreciated works of cinematographic genius.”

And then he started in on how he’d improve the traps for maximum efficiency while keeping the burglars alive. Despite her misgivings, Natasha joined in halfway through, stole the bucket of popcorn, and that had been the start of their tradition. Several years later, the usually-burnt popcorn offering had morphed into cinnamon rolls and other baked goods (recently sharlotka; Clint loved surprising her with Russian treats), accompanied by a spiked beverage of Barton’s choice. She wasn’t sure when the matching pajamas had happened, but it had and she loved it.

That had been another expected gift: she distinctly remembered a time when the only thing she cared about was the mission. That long-ago version of herself would never have allowed her current reality, too warped by her handlers and her anger. Clint had provided a comfortable, secure place for Natasha to deal with that rage. He never judged her because he'd always understood. To Clint, Natasha had been known, and she’d been given space to cultivate a bit of softness. And wasn’t that the kicker? The Infamous Black Widow, hardened assassin, world-class spy, eating cake for breakfast on Christmas morning with her best friend and soulmate, watching the greatest, most underappreciated work of cinematographic genius, more whole and content than she’d ever imagined.

She glanced up at Clint. The sunlight haloed his blond hair and lined his profile in gold. A smile curved his lips. They’d both come such a long way from those early days, and they’d grown, changed, and healed together.

Clint took her empty plate, surprising her a bit, and set it on the table. Hands now free, Natasha took advantage, slipping both her arms around Clint’s chest, resting her head against his shoulder. He wrapped her up, his left hand pushing her hood back before gently stroking her hair. Eventually Lucky and Liho curled up together as well. Natasha smiled, laughing at the movie on the screen, at the feeling of utter happiness fluttering against her ribs. How had she managed to survive without this?

“Hey,” she said, voice soft. Natasha tilted her head up and pressed a kiss to Clint’s cheek, long and fond. “I love you.”

The smile he gave her lit up his face, smoothing his edges. She didn’t say the words often, but Clint had always known, and she hoped, had always felt the same. He brushed a kiss against her forehead. “I love you, too.”

Natasha had never fancied herself one for romance, the stuff of star-crossed lovers, the all-consuming, all-powerful want for another person. She’d heard her whole life that romantic love mattered most, but she knew that was wrong. What she felt for Clint was real, strong, the sort of love that meant they accepted each other without question or judgement. Platonic love held equal value, and they'd always been a matched set.

This was exactly what they’d both needed. They were unbreakable.

“So what would you do?” Clint asked, rubbing small circles against her back.

She squeezed him tight, shifting her focus back to the movie. There was a tradition to be upheld after all. “I’d need a foot of a string, six—make that four—mouse traps, honey, a feather pillow, and a spoon.”

Clint’s hand stopped. “Okay, but what’s the spoon for?”

Natasha giggled, nuzzling into him. “You always ask about the spoon.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's Christmas again for some reason. I feel like we just did the "holidays" thing, and now it's happening all over. I'm not a fan, really, but I am thankful for one thing this year: all of you. Everyone who read these stories, everyone who left a comment or a kind word. I'm grateful I've entertained and managed to provide a safe and comforting space. 
> 
> Thank you.
> 
> I mean it. The world can be dark, scary, and unkind (more often than we'd like), so thank you for letting me put a little light back out there. Whatever you're doing today, I hope you're with the people you love who love you back, or that there's a dog or cat nearby for snuggles, or a book to read, or just Netflix to binge. You're worthy, you're valued, and you're a fucking badass, so do what you want. 
> 
> See you next year.


End file.
